


Hazard's Child

by cest_what



Category: Panic At The Disco, Pistols for Two - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-09
Updated: 2010-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cest_what/pseuds/cest_what
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jon wins Brendon in a dice game. An AU of Georgette Heyer's short story 'Hazard'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hazard's Child

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [LJ](http://cest-what.livejournal.com/17935.html) February 2009.
> 
> Many thanks to my awesome beta frankkincense.

Jon's host was slumped in his chair, his neckcloth askew, the gin in his cup threatening to slop over his sleeve with every movement. To be fair, it was late, and the other men around the table were in no better shape. Young Lord Colligan was almost asleep in his cups, one hand curled over his pocket as though to protect the remnants of his income. It had been a sad route around the table in general.

When Jon was in this kind of mood, he played wildly, and he always won.

His host, Malcolm Urie, had lost more and faster than anybody else. He'd been inclined to be belligerent at first, but now he was regarding Jon intently, with something dark in his expression.

Sir William Beckett put his cup down on the table with a sweet, unsteady smile. "Pockets completely to let," he observed. "Walker, you've got all my vowels, and I only hope you do something damned worthwhile with my ancestral wealth." He waved a hand at Malcolm. "He's got you too, Urie; may as well admit you've been cleaned out."

Malcolm tipped back the last half of his cup, drops spilling on his cuff. Jon regarded him steadily. He recognised the movement as a precursor to something rash. Jon was a long way from sober himself, and he was ready to take on anything that was thrown at him.

"No," Malcolm said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "No, I've something left to stake."

"It had better not be jewelry," the fifth man at the table said, twirling his fingers through the dice on the table. Wentz looked up. He met Malcolm's scowl with a flash of grin, then dipped his eyelashes. "I feel so tacky, pawning jewelry. I always feel that somebody's mistress is going to feel the pawn shop on it."

Wentz was the only one besides Jon who hadn't been cleaned out tonight – mainly because he'd had almost nothing to begin with. Wentz got by on a smile and a glass-sharp word, alternately charming and offending every host and hostess in London.

Malcolm dismissed him with a look. "Not jewelry," he said. He turned his head, calling over his shoulder, "Rickers! Tell the boy he's wanted!"

The manservant trimming candles at the sideboard blinked. He picked up one of the candles he'd been tending and left the room, his feet soundless.

Jon had jerked his head up when Malcolm mentioned his ward. He subsided now, dropping his eyelids. "I hope," he said, the words careful and slow through the gin in his system, "you're not going to rifle through your brother's pockets for change, Urie." The drawl wasn't hard to call up. Jon was drunk enough now to be feeling boneless, the tension that had kept him going all night only a buzz beneath his skin.

Colligan raised his head, blinking. "What? Brendon?" He swayed and caught himself with a sloppy grin. "No, no taking Brendon's money for play. Unsporting."

Malcolm laughed. "He's my ward, isn't he?" he said. "What's his is practically mine anyway." Colligan blinked again, pushing the fringe out of his face and opening his mouth to speak. "Oh, nobody's taking his money," Malcolm said.

Jon scowled at the table. He doubted that Brendon Urie had any of his own money anyway; not with Malcolm as his guardian. He lifted his glass and drank again before he could think too much about that.

It seemed to take hours for Malcolm's summons to have any effect. Still, when the door pushed open and a slim figure slipped through it, it was obvious that Brendon had dressed either in a great hurry or while he was half-asleep. His shirt was wrongly buttoned at the top, his neck cloth was untied, and his coat was rucked up over one shoulder and dangling over the fingers of one hand, as though he'd been too bleary to pull it on the rest of the way. His dark hair was mussed with sleep. He pushed it out of his eyes, blinking at the assembled company.

"You called me?" he mumbled to Malcolm. His voice was sleep-roughened and deeper than usual. His eyes skittered to Jon and then away when he found Jon staring at him. His cheeks reddened and he hugged his arms around his middle. Jon slipped lower in his chair and stared some more.

Malcolm leaned back, a smile curling around his mouth. "I said that I had one more thing to stake," he said. He spread his hands. "Gentlemen, my ward. I'll set him as my last stake." He laughed. "He's an appealing thing, if you like the type. Who'll cover?"

Jon hadn't stopped watching Brendon, so he saw the way Brendon paled. Brendon's mouth edged into an uncertain smile and he raised a hand, brushing it over his hair. "Malcolm..." he said. It was trying to sound like a jokey warning, but the shape of his mouth looked vulnerable.

Sir William unfolded himself with a loose grace, staring at Malcolm. "Damnit, Urie, you can't stake your brother." He attempted a bow to Brendon. "Your servant." He turned back to Malcolm, giving him an unsteadily severe look. "Not decent, sir."

Colligan yawned, his hand tightening reflexively over his pocket again. "Isn't a serious stake," he mumbled. He cradled his head in his hands.

"I'm deadly serious," Malcolm said. "Who'll cover? Walker, you've never refused a stake." His eyes were slitted, gleaming. "Will you have my damnably pretty brother for husband?"

Sir William pushed his hands onto the back of his chair, supporting himself as he leaned forward. "It's the drink," he said. "You're drunk, Malcolm. We should leave the evening here."

Wentz moved the dice beneath his fingers again, tumbling them against each other. He tilted his head to the side, the alcohol glazing his eyes and giving his grin an extra edge. "Definitely drunk," he agreed. He nodded to Brendon, a lazy greeting. "Also _hilarious_. Walker, are you going to cover?"

Brendon gave no indication that he'd heard any of this. He was staring straight ahead, looking at nobody. His face was pale, a fiercely angry hurt in his eyes. The candlelight catching his hair turned it a golden colour. The line of his back was perfectly straight beneath his mussed shirt.

"Walker," Malcolm said. His voice was a taunt.

"I accept," Jon said softly. He shoved forward the crumpled heap of vowels and rouleaus at his elbow.

Brendon jerked, his gaze dropping to the stake, and Jon saw his eyes widen as he did a quick calculation. By Jon's reckoning – which was admittedly not at its best just now – there were about twenty thousand pounds there. Jon didn't care.

"Good God," Wentz breathed, leaning forward. "Walker, when you lose your senses you do it with style." This was apparently a compliment. He rested his chin on his hand and gave Jon a starry smile.

"You can't be serious," Sir William said.

Jon ignored him. "Call a main, Pete."

"Seven!" Wentz said, his grin huge. He cast the dice.

"Five to seven," Colligan observed, blinking at the table. He laughed nervously, seeming to wake up to the situation a little, and his eyes skittered between Brendon, Malcolm and Jon.

Jon was suddenly sure that he was going to win this. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on Brendon. Brendon's mouth moved in a silent _One_, apparently to himself, as Malcolm collected the dice. Maybe Brendon didn't even know he was doing it.

 

Malcolm cast the dice, and they settled into ace and five.

"Cinque-ace!" Colligan reported. His gaze darted to Jon again. Jon smiled, his eyes still on Brendon.

Brendon was worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He seemed to be trying not to watch the table, but his gaze kept darting over. _Two_, he mouthed silently.

The dice were cast for the last time. Jon shifted to watch them as they tumbled, slow and deliberate. Three and four.

"Quatre-trey!" Wentz called.

Brendon made a tiny noise in his throat. It might have been a laugh.

Wentz did laugh. "You've the devil's own luck tonight, Walker!"

Jon got to his feet and sketched a bow. He stumbled and caught his hand on the chair back, his head spinning. Then he looked up, giving Brendon a warm, sweet smile. "Sir, I have won your hand honourably. Will you go with me?"

Brendon didn't hesitate. He walked to Jon with a quiet dignity, his back straight. He bowed, accepting Jon's hand. This close, Jon could see the hot anger in his eyes. He looked as reckless as Jon felt.

Jon laughed. "Come to Gretna with me," he breathed.

"Anywhere," Brendon said.

Malcolm pushed back his chair, his knee knocking the table. "You'll really go through with this, Walker?" he demanded.

Sir William hadn't resumed his seat. "I think you forfeited your right to object, Urie," he said. He looked unsettled and unhappy, all angles in comparison to his earlier sprawl.

Jon ignored them both, his attention fixed on Brendon. "Do you need anything before we leave?"

Brendon shook his head, his mouth tight.

"Damn it, Brendon," Urie said. "If you leave this house, the door will be closed to you forever."

Brendon turned towards him for the first time since the game began. "For God's sake, Malcolm," he said, anger making his voice shake. "Do you think I'd ever come back? After _this?_"

Jon proffered his arm. Brendon took it, straightening his shoulders.

Jon opened the door, gallantly bowing his new betrothed into the street to the sound of Wentz's laughing "God speed!"

The cold night air hit Jon like a train. He reeled, feeling Brendon catch him beneath the elbows. Jon shook his head, pushing his hair back off his face. His carriage was waiting a few paces away, the coachman drowsing on his seat.

"I'm drunk, you know." Jon frowned, wanting to be sure Brendon understood.

Brendon's mouth quirked. He shifted his grip on Jon's elbows. "Yes," he said. "Is it important?"

Jon straightened, steadying himself. Then he reached out to touch Brendon's cheek, pushing back the lock of hair curled over his ear. Brendon stilled, biting his lip. Jon leaned in closer, intoxicating himself over again with Brendon's wide eyes. "You're quite something, Brendon Urie," he murmured.

Then he swung away, laughing, and opened the carriage door. "Here." He handed Brendon into the carriage. "We've a long drive ahead of us, if we're going to Gretna Green!"

*

Jon only realised he'd fallen asleep in the carriage when Brendon shook him awake. Jon stared muzzily at him. He was leaning over Jon, faintly lit from behind. Jon had an impression of dark eyes and pale face, mouth tilted in an expression Jon couldn't read. He was saying something about a posting house.

Jon shook his head. He had an idea that he was drunker now than he'd been when he fell asleep.

Brendon grinned, a flash of white in the dimness, his hair falling into his eyes as he ducked his head.

Jon let himself be helped into the inn, leaning his arm against the wall and his face against his arm as Brendon conducted a low-voiced conversation with the landlord. Then somebody was helping Jon up the stairs. He fell into a bed and knew nothing more.

*

It wasn't a happy awakening. Jon groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. His coat was twisted impossibly around his shoulders. He seemed to be fully dressed, except for his neck cloth and boots. His head was pounding out a dull rhythm, and his throat felt sandpaper-dry.

He rolled over, feeling queasy the instant he moved. He made a pitiful sound as he fumbled on the bedside table for a bell.

When the bell brought a servant, Jon squinted up at him. "I don't recognise you," he rasped. "Where in God's name have I washed up?"

The manservant's expression was bland. "You're at the Crown, sir," he said, filling a glass of water from a pitcher. Then, when Jon only took the glass and stared at him, he added, "In Welwyn."

Jon choked and put the glass down again. "Good God," he said. "What am I doing here?" He pushed a hand into his hair, shoving it off his forehead. His recollections of the night before were hazy, but he had an awful idea that there was something important hovering over his memory. Had he bet his fortune on a dog race?

The servant coughed. "The other young man has ordered breakfast in the East Parlour, sir."

Jon jerked his eyes up. "The – who?" he said. And then, pressing a hand to his eyes, "Oh. Oh, no. I..." He let out his breath in a painful slide. "What have I done?"

*

Brendon tried not to jiggle his leg with nerves. He got up and paced around the room again, the breakfast tray untouched on the table behind him.

It was ridiculous to be so nervous. Getting into a coach with Jon Walker last night had been the most idiotic impulse of a lifetime of idiotic impulses, but Jon would be a gentleman about it. Brendon _knew_ that. Jon wouldn't make this more awkward for Brendon than it had to be.

Brendon had spent the morning trying to recapture the moment from last night in which he'd thought this was a good idea. He'd wanted to punish Malcolm, and he'd wanted to get out of that house. He could have waited till morning, though. He could have packed a bag in the early morning light and turned up on Spencer's or Ryan's doorstep. He was going to reach the end of his minority in a month anyway; he didn't think Malcolm would have followed him.

Brendon dropped into a chair, a breathless edge to his laugh. He was _wretched_ at making the sensible decision.

But he'd been so fucking angry. And it had been _Jon_; Jon who'd been looking at him when he first came down with a naked hunger, all the usual laziness shorn off. And then Jon had held out his hand with a sweet, reckless smile as if he were holding the whole crazy moonlit ride to Gretna Green in his palm, and Brendon had let himself believe in it.

Brendon scrubbed his hands through his hair. Jon Walker's pretty eyes were a really bad reason to leave your home in the middle of the night with nothing but your clothes. Well, and a reputation that was probably already in tatters. It was just as well Brendon had already had no prospects, he supposed.

The door opened. Brendon jerked his head up. Jon hesitated in the doorway, giving Brendon a small wave. He stepped inside. "Good morning."

The devil in Brendon made him greet Jon with a slow, bright smile. "Good morning," he said. "There's breakfast on the table, and coffee in the pot."

Jon blanched at the word 'breakfast'. He'd taken the time to wash and shave, and his neck cloth had been pressed so that it fell in crisp folds, but his face was pale and drawn, and his clothing was crumpled and a bit soiled. He looked exactly like a man suffering the effects of a night of heavy drinking.

"Coffee," Brendon repeated, his smile widening.

"I – yes," Jon said. "Yes, thank you." He walked over and poured himself a cup. He shot Brendon a troubled look as he stirred in cream. Then, as if it was bursting out of him, he turned and said, "I don't remember much of last night, but I _can't_ have been so drunk that I forced you to come away with me."

Brendon winced, then turned it into another smile. "Oh, no," he said. "I came of my own free will. You won me, you know." He grinned.

"I remember," Jon said faintly. "I was drunk – I must have been _mad_ – but you – Brendon, what _possessed_ you? Were you insane, that you said yes to such a thing?"

He looked horrified. Brendon winced again. He stopped his hand where it had started a nervous tap against his thigh. "Oh," he said vaguely. "I've always wanted to go to Gretna Green."

"Gretna Green..." Jon sounded winded. He sat down. Brendon took the opportunity to pour his own cup of coffee. He added an extra three spoonfuls of sugar for comfort; Jon couldn't see him doing it, after all.

 

"Mm," Brendon said, a vague agreement to Jon's words. "We should start soon if we're going to make good progress today. The morning's half over already."

Jon lifted his head to stare. Brendon gave him an innocent smile. "Don't you think?"

Jon looked stricken. "Brendon," he said quietly, "The notice of my engagement is appearing in today's _Gazette_."

Brendon couldn't stop his face registering the shock for a moment. He looked down, biting his lip fiercely. Of course it didn't matter; of course he'd known none of this was real. He'd sometimes thought Jon had a liking for him, when he came to the house, and Brendon supposed that that had been heightened by the drink last night – but men didn't seriously marry people they ran away with in the night when they were _foxed_. Not when they could have chosen to court them at any time, if they'd wanted to. Last night had been a wild joke to Jon.

It had been that to Brendon, too, except that he'd also been desperate and angry. And except that to Brendon, Jon was...

Anyway, that hardly mattered.

Brendon looked up again, making his expression puzzled and wondering. "Why ever did you run away with me, then?"

Jon dropped his head into his hands again. "I was drunk," he mumbled. "I was so drunk I didn't – I only knew what I wanted." Brendon had to strain to hear him. "Not what I could have." He looked up at Brendon, his face awful. "I'm so sorry."

Brendon dropped the joke. "Hey," he said quietly. He sat down again, tracing a pattern on the carpet with his toe. "No, hey, it's all right. I was teasing you."

Jon looked up.

"I have friends in London," Brendon said. "School friends. Ross works as a teacher at my old school, actually; I was thinking that he might be able to get me a post there as a music master. Anyway, they'll let me stay with them until I get my inheritance, if there's any left, or until I find my feet. They probably would have come to get me sooner if they'd known how impossible things had got with Malcolm."

Jon got to his feet, an explosive movement. His expression was savage; it startled Brendon. Until last night's devil-may-care mood, Brendon had only ever seen Jon Walker good natured and relaxed; it had always been one of Brendon's favourite things about him.

"An impoverished schoolmaster!" Jon muttered. He turned back to Brendon. "That you should – _God_, Brendon, when I think about Malcolm putting you in that position last night – and then that I made it _worse_ – and the only option for you now is –?" He groaned, turning away.

"I'm sorry," Jon said, his voice quiet. "I've no right to speak like that to you. You're right; you should go to stay with your friends. I'll take you there this morning. And –" He turned his head restlessly. "I'll make sure that Beckett and Wentz and Colligan don't gossip. I don't think it's a story your brother will be spreading himself."

He looked at Brendon, and Brendon smiled; small, a quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," he said.

Jon winced and looked away.

"Are you –" Brendon hesitated. "May I ask who you're engaged to?"

Jon didn't look at him as he said, "Mr Thomas Conrad."

Brendon tried to think of where he'd heard the name Conrad before.

Jon moved to the breakfast table. "It's been a – longstanding arrangement," he said, still not looking at Brendon, "but I formally offered yesterday morning, and he accepted." He lifted the cover on a tray of toast, then put it down again with a clatter.

"Oh," Brendon said. He brought out the bright smile again. "I suppose last night's excesses were something of a celebration for you."

Jon did look at him then. "For God's sake, Brendon, they were an escape from reality and you know it. If I could ... if I was at liberty..." He scowled and lifted the cover off another tray.

Brendon took a second to get his breath back. It felt painful in his throat. "Nobody's forcing you to get married, I suppose," he said lightly.

"It's –" Jon paced to the window. "It's been understood for years. Our mothers were the best of friends before they were married; they planned the engagement while we were still children. Tom grew up assuming he would marry me." He looked at his hands. "We were great friends when we were boys, so neither of us minded the idea. Tom was always mad for the Navy, so we thought we'd, I'd don't know, get married and head for the high seas or something; it didn't seem like an unlikely option. Then –" Jon shrugged, looking up again. "We went away to school, we lost touch, we ... I don't know, maybe it would have come to nothing in the end, now that we're grown up and practically strangers, if the Conrads hadn't..."

He trailed off, and Brendon remembered in a rush where he knew the name Conrad. His eyes widened in understanding. _If the Conrads hadn't so spectacularly lost their fortune four years ago._

That informal engagement to Jon Walker must have seemed a thousand times more important than before, to the newly impoverished family.

"I couldn't back out," Jon said. "Not when Tom's expectations had diminished so drastically." He looked out of the window. "Not when it would break my mother's heart."

Brendon stared at him for a long moment. Then he gave Jon a shaky smile. "Well, I've no mother whose heart I can break," he said, "so I suppose I can marry where I choose, if anybody turns out to want me. In the meantime..." He shrugged, one shouldered. "I feel pretty awful in yesterday's clothes? The sooner you can take me back to London, the better, Jon Walker."

Jon looked as if he was biting his tongue. He nodded. "I'll call the ostler and tell him to ready –" Then he really did bite his tongue. He made a strangled noise and took hold of the window sill, a look of horror on his face.

Brendon scrambled over to see. He didn't recognise the handsome young man talking to the ostler, but it was evident that Jon did. The young man was joined by two others; he lifted his head, grinning sunnily at them. Jon made a small choking noise.

"It's Tom," he muttered. "He ... oh, _hell_. He must have chased us here. What does he think he's _doing?_"

*

Jon should have known that last night would get out. Wentz probably still thought it a fantastic joke, and Colligan was incapable of keeping his mouth shut about anything when he was foxed.

"You need to hide," Jon said, turning to Brendon. "You can't be seen here with me, it would be disastrous for you."

Brendon nodded, his mouth tight. He slipped into the servant's corridor that led off one side of the parlour, pulling the door closed behind him.

The other door pushed open a moment later, the landlord ushering his new guests in. The two young men Jon didn't know came into the room laughing, but Tom stopped on the threshold, his gaze coming to rest on Jon. The sunny smile was gone. For a long moment no one said anything, and Tom's friends trailed into silence.

"What the devil, Walker?" Tom said eventually.

Jon took a breath. He couldn't even _begin_ to think about how much he didn't want to be doing this right now. His headache felt worse than before. "Look, Tom," he said. He could hear the tiredness in his voice. "I can't have this conversation right now. I'm sorry this happened, and I'm sorry we're meeting up like this, but – I'll take you back to London and we'll forget about it, all right? Nothing has actually changed. This doesn't mean anything."

"The hell it doesn't," Tom breathed. He looked as though he was beginning to be angry now. "And the hell you're taking me back to London."

Tom's friends were glancing between them. "Seriously, that's Walker?" one of them muttered.

Tom shook his head, sharply. "Look, I'm sorry I handled things this way – it wasn't very considerate to simply come to a desperate resolution and leap onto a horse – but I was afraid that if I waited longer I'd lose my nerve. I thought –" He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the movement edgy and nervous. "I always used to talk about how I'd do this, remember? I thought you'd understand, Jonny."

Jon blinked. Tom hadn't called him Jonny since they were twelve. He wanted to be angry with Tom for chasing him, for being the person standing between him and his own choice, unfair though that was. But it was Tom. He'd caught crickets with Tom, and practised the piano with him on long afternoons where they were both bored out of their minds; he'd skinned his knees with Tom and lied for him when they got caught in the wrong person's garden.

Jon frowned. Wait. "You always used to talk about this?" he asked.

"No, really," one of Tom's friends asked the other quietly, "that's Walker? I thought he'd be taller."

Tom rolled his eyes at Jon. "Only all the time," he said.

Jon was pretty sure he would have remembered if they'd had conversations about what Tom would do if Jon tried to jilt him and elope with somebody else.

He sat down, feeling dizzy. "When you said you didn't want me to take you back to London ... Conrad, where the hell are you headed?"

Tom looked at him, a feral, boyish grin tugging at his mouth. "I'm going to sea, Jonny," he said. He laughed. "You're not going to stop me now, right? I thought I could do marriage, for my family, maybe for you and all those old promises – but Jon, it was always the Navy with me, you know that."

Something was welling up in Jon's chest, light and ridiculous. "You didn't think you could – you could maybe have had this revelation before I sent the notice of our engagement to the _Gazette_?" he asked, his voice strangled.

Tom made a face. "As if I care for newspaper announcements. If I can stand to disappoint my mother, I can disappoint the readership of the _Gazette_." He gave Jon a searching look. "I'm not disappointing you, am I?" he asked. "I know you chased all this way after me, but ... you're not going to get a broken heart, or something?"

Jon smiled. "No. No, God, no, I wouldn't dream of it. I–" He spun around, beaming at the other two young men. "Are these your friends? Are they going to sea too?" He pumped both their hands while they smiled at him, bemused. "I'm Jon Walker, it's fantastic to meet you – Van Vleet? Luciani? Fantastic, really, you three will make capital sailors, look after Conrad won't you?" He laughed, swinging around to face Tom. "Best of luck, Tommy, look me up the next time you're in town. Are you here for breakfast? You can have ours, it hasn't been touched."

Tom and the others watched with amazed expressions as he pulled open the door to the servant's corridor and tugged Brendon out by his elbow. Brendon was shaking with silent laughter; he leaned on Jon's back and gasped with it. Jon grinned. "We have to get back to London," he murmured to Tom and the others, still watching Brendon. Jon looked up, smiling straight and fierce at Tom. "Godspeed, Tom."

Tom just shook his head, still wide-eyed. Brendon hadn't stopped laughing when they ducked through the doorway, or when they got out into the posting yard to Jon's waiting carriage.

Jon handed him up into the carriage, then held him there, not letting go of his hand. Brendon looked down at him, his eyes still laughing. There was a nervous edge to his expression now, though.

Jon rocked back on his heels. "Are you very attached to that idea of being a music master?" he asked.

Brendon grinned, slow, then bit his lip against the expression. "I don't know," he said. "The salary, you know. It's a giddy thought."

Jon nodded. "It's only," he said, "that I've been in love with you for a year, now, and I got you to say yes to me once. Do you think that you might say it again? If you thought you maybe didn't have better things to do?"

"A year?" Brendon's hand tightened around Jon's. His smile was huge and incredulous. "Honestly, a year?"

Jon nodded. "Brendon..." he said tightly.

"Oh! Yes. Yes." Brendon shook his head. "I meant it the first time, you idiot."

"Oh." Jon felt his mouth relax into a smile. He tugged Brendon's hand up to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. "You're something, Brendon Urie," he said. Brendon took his hand back, his face flushed and happy. Jon rocked back on his heels again and swung the carriage door to.

He got halfway around the carriage, then turned and pulled the door open again, jumping up onto the step. Brendon laughed at him. Jon leaned in, taking Brendon's face in his hands. "Really?" Jon whispered. "You're not going to run away to join the Navy or something?"

Brendon just shook his head, his eyes bright, and Jon leaned in and kissed him. Brendon's mouth was soft beneath his, opening on an exhale. Jon pressed closer, pushing Brendon back against the coach cushions. Brendon kissed back hard, biting and tugging at Jon's lip with a warm, urgent sound, then pulling back and huffing a laugh of apology. Jon pressed back, chasing his mouth as if it were oxygen and tangling his hands in Brendon's hair. He didn't think he would ever get used to being able to do this. He deepened the kiss, feeling Brendon shiver, and was sure he never wanted to.

When they pulled back, gasping, it was because the carriage had jerked forward, almost knocking Jon off the step. The horses were fidgeting.

Jon adjusted his footing then leaned forward again, smoothing a tangled lock of hair behind Brendon's ear. "I, um..." He cleared his throat. "I think I'd better ride outside, actually," he admitted.

Above them there was the sound of a window opening. Jon twisted around to find Tom leaning out of the upper parlour. "You had better send me a letter telling me how this happened, Walker!" he called. He was grinning and shaking his head.

Jon just waved at him, his cheeks hot.

"What will you tell him?" Brendon asked. He was flushed and smiling.

Jon jumped off the step and swung the door closed. He crinkled his eyes at Brendon. "I don't know. You can make up some respectable story, if you'd like?"

Brendon shook his head immediately. His dark eyes were dancing; Jon wanted to kiss him again. "Respectability would have seen me leave Malcolm's house to be a school teacher," Brendon said. His eyes dropped and he smiled; a quirk of his mouth. "I like this story better."

**Author's Note:**

> (1) I don't know any of the real people mentioned in this story. This is a work of fiction, written with affection and no intention to offend. All family situations, particularly Brendon's brother, are inventions for the sake of the plot.
> 
> (2) The plot, for the most part, belongs to Georgette Heyer, although I've taken a lot of liberties. (The Hazard game itself is ripped almost verbatim from her text, because I wasn't sure enough of the rules to deviate.)


End file.
